


The Ghost of Altina

by Gazetteer



Category: Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 11:54:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1817605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gazetteer/pseuds/Gazetteer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sephiran takes Zelgius to a lonely grave on top of a barren hill, a place of great importance to him</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghost of Altina

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alexei Dinoia](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Alexei+Dinoia).



> This was written as part of Summer Naga-mas 2014 as a gift for Alexei Dinoia. t’s been years since I’ve written fanfiction of any kind, and never about either of these characters so hopefully I’m not too super rusty.
> 
> The original prompt was "sephiran/zelgius — the ghost of altina."

_The Grann Foothills, North of Sienne  
Year 635 of the Imperial Calendar_

“It isn’t much further. Just at the top of this hill.”

It wasn’t even a goat track -- just a thin, unpredictable band of scarcely-bare earth winding its way up to the distant crown of the steep slope. Coarse grasses, shrubs and maddening thorn bushes clung to the hillside all around -- more often than not, a misstep was enough to earn Zelgius an irritating scratch on his legs. Overhead, the sun beat down on them, harsh and blinding -- It wasn’t the desert proper, but that distinction did little to offer relief.

Zelgius was a man accustomed to far greater discomfort than this, and he bore it with a resigned stoicism that couldn’t quite mask his growing sense of anticipation. Even as he trudged doggedly up the hill after Sephiran, the glint in his eye was unmistakable: A cautious sort of eagerness. Not unlike the look he wore in the moments before a battle was joined.

Sephiran, somehow, seemed far less impaired by the difficulties of the climb. He hadn’t slipped or stumbled once, his feet somehow always finding their way to precisely the right spot in the meandering little path. As if he had made the climb hundreds of times before. Or more.

Sephiran stopped to wait for him on a small, flat area of ground, staring down at the approaching Zelgius with a strange, thoughtful expression on his sharp-featured face. Today he was wearing rough traveller’s clothes, his long, black hair tied back in a practical braid. Even dressed as he was as a simple pilgrim, Zelgius didn’t know how anyone could ever fail to notice Sephiran’s regal bearing. It took him a moment to catch up, and he took a long drink from his water skin before speaking:

“Will you tell me where we’re going now?” Zelgius asked, breathing hard.

Sephiran just looked at him cryptically for a moment, uncharacteristically quiet. “It will be easier to simply show you. Our destination lies at the top of this hill.”

“This is where you go every year.” It wasn’t quite a question. Every year like clockwork, Sephiran departed on a journey to an unknown destination. He would be gone for the better part of a month, before returning somber and despondent. Over the years, Zelgius had made it a rule not to pry; he couldn’t force his lord to share every part of himself, whatever else they shared. But this time, Zelgius had been invited to come. And without so much as a proper explanation, Zelgius had followed him here.

Sephiran turned to gaze up at the hill, face still quiet and unapproachable. “For a very long time now,” he agreed. He glanced back to Zelgius, the ghost of a smile gracing his lips. “Shall we go on, or do you require more rest?”

Zelgius shook his head, replacing the water skin at his belt. “No,” he said. “I am ready.” 

The rest of the climb was completed almost in silence. From that place of brief respite, the hill grew steeper and more treacherous; Zelgius had traversed worse, and in heavy armour. But he would have been a liar to say that it didn’t frustrate him. It was as if the very earth was trying to delay him from seeing what his companion of many years wanted to show him.

By the position of the sun, the climb barely took another quarter hour. It felt much longer. Here, at the top of the hill, he had a commanding view of the surrounding area. It was the highest point for miles, until the great ring of mountains that encircled the Grann Desert rose up to the north. Lesser hills than this one dotted the landscape, the south giving way to rocky fields and sparse forests, with farmland popping up here and there in the distance.

No one lived here where they were, aside from a few shepherds or rustic hermits. The soil was bad and the heat was relentless for most of the year. There was better opportunity elsewhere. Perhaps that was why their destination had remained so undisturbed for so long. At the very centre of the hill, partially sunken into the ground, weathered with age but still standing mostly defiant against the elements, was a long, marble rectangle. A tomb.

Sephiran hung back, one hand outstretched as if inviting Zelgius to investigate. Slowly, cautiously, he did. If there had been any particular ornamentation on the great marble slab, it had long since been worn away. All that remained was what looked like a dedication, written into the stone itself in an archaic, looping script. He recognised its like from some of Sephiran’s spellbooks, but could make no more sense of it here than he could there.

“What does this say?” he asked, gently tracing the intricate engraving. The characters were so delicate and fine that they had clearly been the work of a master craftsman. Or of powerful magic.

Sephiran didn’t need to look at the characters. He recited the words from memory, without hesitation or uncertainty. “In the Ancient Tongue, it reads: ‘Here lies Altina of Begnion. Queen, mother, wife.’”

Zelgius stared, momentarily taken aback. “But, Queen Altina is buried in Sienne. I’ve seen the tomb.” More like a temple than a tomb, complete with soaring columns and massive statues of the ancient queen depicted in various acts of valour -- it made this relatively modest burial place look like a grave fit for a pauper.

Sephiran shook his head. “Meshua’s doing. That girl never did anything small; it was anathema to her that the resting place of her great ancestor could be so humble and out of the way.” He leaned heavily on his staff, with the bearing of a much older man than his youthful appearance belied. “And so the pilgrimages stopped coming, the scholars forgot. But that tomb in Sienne is empty.” He looked finally to the stone tablet Zelgius still knelt beside. “But Altina is here.”

“Apostle Meshua.” Zelgius said slowly, struggling to process so casual a reference. “The first Empress.”

Sephiran nodded, a small, distant smile creeping over his face. “She could never do anything small,” he repeated. Like a grandfather reflecting on a minor fault of a grandchild. Zelgius had to remind himself that that was exactly what Sephiran _was_.

Apostle Meshua had died in the year 47, the better part of six centuries ago. When the Empire was young and vast, spreading itself across the breadth of Tellius. Before the last stone of the ancient Mainal Cathedral had been laid. And Sephiran had been alive when it happened; as young and strong as ever he was now. Zelgius had known that -- he’d been told who and what his lord was. But it was one thing to be told, and another to look at the wind-blunted edges of the tomb he knelt beside and to all at once fathom the long years that separated him from Sephiran.

Slowly, Sephiran reached into the leather bag that hung from his back, and pulled out a small, faintly fragrant cloth-wrapped bundle. He knelt in the gravel beside Zelgius, and carefully unwrapped it. Inside were roses. Wild, pink roses, dried and delicate, but with wickedly long thorns that put any of the bushes they’d walked through on the way up the hill to shame. Carefully and reverently, Sephiran placed the flowers at the foot of the grave.

How long had he been doing this? Zelgius strained his memory, struggling to recall the exact year that Queen Altina had been said to have died. Over a century before the founding of the Empire, he knew. So this tomb had stood for over seven hundred years. He looked over at Sephiran, kneeling quiet and thoughtful, less than a handsbreadth away from him. But in that moment, the distance between them seemed to stretch for miles. He thought of Altina’s face, as it was shown in the statues and paintings and mosaics. Fierce and flawless. Utterly beautiful -- a paragon more than a real person. He tried to imagine what it would be like to remember her as a woman of flesh and blood. To love her as a wife. Try as he might, he couldn’t. 

Zelgius knelt there, lost in thought for long moments, until he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder. He looked up to see Sephiran standing over him. “Seven hundred forty five years to the day,” Sephiran said. He paused, before continuing: “And you are the only one I have I brought to this place.” He held out his other hand, as if to help Zelgius up.

Zelgius took it, and looking into those knowing green eyes, he felt grounded again. Despite the long years Sephiran had lived before he had ever been born, Zelgius knew that the bond they shared was still real. Still important. And that was what mattered. Gripping his lord’s hand tightly, he let himself be helped to his feet.

Together they left the grave on the lonely hill, the petals of the bundle of flowers already shuddering in the wind.

_End._


End file.
